Every Day a Little Death
by MBP
Summary: A series of short vignettes as the Weasleys come to terms with their loss. Starting with the day Fred dies, each character will have a chapter of his/her own to reflect/experience the days covered, so there will be 8 chapters per "day." T for language.
1. They can't

**Disclaimer: I obviously do not own Harry Potter.**

"We won't be able to do this."

Molly's voice is flat, but the tears continue to stream down her face as they've been doing since Percy and Lee carried Fred – well, his _body_ into the Great Hall. Arthur turns away. He feels bad about it, but he can't even look at her anymore. All he's been doing for the past few hours is trying to soothe her, but now they're alone; their kids aren't looking to them to be the unreasonable pillars of strength that they can't be, and he just wishes he could go to bed and forget any of this ever happened.

But he can't. It happened – it is _happening_. He knows now that this Battle – well, it will never really be over for them. He'd hoped – they all had – that they might actually make it through this intact – that they might actually lead the charmed life that he'd begun to think they actually led. But no. And – and it's _Fred_. He swallows hard.

"Arthur." It's Molly voice again, and now it's not as flat. She wants him to look at her, to give her answers he doesn't have. He clenches his jaw as he forces himself to turn. It's the first time he has to force himself to look at his wife. It's the first time he can ever remember not wanting to. And it scares him. But when he finally looks at her again, he knows he's not the only one who's scared.

"I need…" she starts to say, but then she closes her mouth. She sees his eyes, and she suddenly knows that at this moment, even though he won't say it — even though he hardly knows it himself – he needs her more.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and then before he even realizes what she's doing, she has her arms around his waist, and then … she's not the one who's crying.

He doesn't know how it happens. He doesn't intend for it to happen. Ever. Molly doesn't need this now. It's hard enough for her already, and their kids aren't going to let her have a moment's peace. But his chest is tightening, and his eyes are filling, and he can't control his breathing anymore no matter how hard he tries, and then she's rubbing his back and murmuring, "It's all right. You can let go. I'm here."

And he does. Because she might be here. But Fred isn't. And he never will be again. Molly might be right. They – who've survived two wars, who've survived _Voldemort _– might not be able to do this. And the thought terrifies him.


	2. Bill can't

"I'm fine."

He says it, but he doesn't believe it. It doesn't matter, though, if he believes it. What matters is that everyone else – his brothers, his sister, his parents, his _wife_ – believe it. Because they need him to be fine. He knows that. He wishes he were.

But Fleur is looking at him closely now, and he has to look away. For the first time since the Battle has ended, they're alone – somehow, they've managed to escape from the rest of the family for a few minutes and mercifully find an empty classroom – and he's afraid that she'll see through the mask he's somehow managed to create.

He moves across the room to escape her concern, but her eyes follow him, and he knows she's worried. He can't really blame her. She's always been the one who can read him when others can't. But right now he can't afford to let her do that. As impossible as he thinks it might just be, he has to stay strong for everyone else. He wishes he didn't, but he really doesn't see any other option.

"You are not." She says it quietly, calmly, but it's not a question, and her voice holds no challenge. She is merely stating a fact, and Bill is startled into looking at her.

It is a mistake. The love and grief in her own eyes cause his eyes to sting, and he blinks rapidly.

"I am," he tries to insist, but his voice comes out as a hoarse croak. He turns away again and moves to the stone wall, leaning against it with his face safely in the crook of his elbow. He can't care right now that this stance might be giving him away – might just be confirming everything she's trying to prove. He just hopes she knows to stay away from him.

For a long time, she does. She merely sits, watching him, knowing that the last thing he wants to do right now is break down, but then she hears him, and she knows he isn't even aware that he's talking. He's mumbling into his arm, but the only words she can make out are _Fred and George_, and she feels the lump in her throat swell. Hardly realizing that she's doing this as much for her own sake as for his, she stands and touches his shoulder blades. He starts to shake, and she rubs slowly, wishing anything she could do would take away some of this pain but knowing nothing can.

When he finally looks at her, eyes red and swollen, he mutters, "how can I not do this around them?"

Fleur shakes her head, her eyes pained. "You can't."


	3. Charlie can't

He can't open his mouth.

Some of his siblings are talking. Charlie hears, and he envies them – almost. But at the same time, he wonders how they can do it, how they can talk, how they can even try to process something so… unimaginable. Because he can't. He can't process it, and he can't talk about it. He can't talk to anyone.

This doesn't mean that some of them don't try. Every hour during those first two days, it seemed as though his family took turns resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, looking into his eyes questioningly. And he forced a weak smile every time, sometimes not able to suppress the grimace. (He'll always feel bad about that. He doesn't know if he'll ever forget the hurt in Ron's eyes as he jerked his hand away.)

He can't open his mouth. He just can't. If he tries to talk, he's afraid of what he might say. He's afraid of what else might come out along with the words. It's a chance he's not willing to take.

But then, 24 hours after the Battle has ended and two hours since the last time anyone tried to check in on him, he's sitting in the corner of the Great Hall, his eyes deliberately turned away from where his parents sit, and suddenly Ginny is sitting beside him. She is by herself for the first time in a long time, Harry off Merlin knows where, and Charlie realizes he's afraid for the first time since the Battle.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Ginny moves closer to Charlie, leaning her head against his shoulder. She doesn't say anything for a moment, and Charlie feels as though as his nerves are taut, his breath coming quickly. This is the first time anyone has really touched him for a sustained period of time, and he doesn't know if he can do this either. He's about to get up, to gently move Ginny back to her own place on the bench, when she whispers, "We're never going to be the Weasley kids again, are we? Are we kids anymore, Charlie? Because if this is what it's like to be an adult, it's too – it's too hard."

She swallows hard, and it's her words and her proximity and her pain that bring Charlie to open his mouth for the first time.

"We're not," he says, and his voice sounds strange even in his own ears. He clears his throat, but there's a lump in it suddenly that won't go away. Ginny tilts her head to look up at him, but he won't look back at her.

She moves away slowly, and now he's really afraid to look at her. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

He doesn't want to know why she's apologizing. That would mean she can see everything he hopes she can't. He also hopes that if he continues not to look at her, she'll leave. But he underestimates his sister because now she's slipping her hand into his and squeezing it tightly while wisely keeping her eyes on the table.

He sniffs. He wishes he hadn't, but he can't help it anymore. Because for Ginny, he had to open his mouth, and now everything he's afraid of is starting to come out at last. And when she feels the bench they're sitting on start to tremble, she removes her hand from his and slips her arms around him. He buries his face in her shoulder, and as her shoulders start shaking for one of the rare times when they actually do, his do too.

First he couldn't talk. And he couldn't cry. And that was ok. Now he doesn't know when he'll ever stop.


	4. Percy can't

Percy can't stop seeing the wall fall on his brother.

Fred had been laughing – _he _had actually made _Fred _laugh – and then –suddenly – it was a sound he'd never hear again. And he knows that nothing could be truer than that because yes, George laughs like Fred, but no, that's not true anymore. Because George doesn't laugh anymore. And even if – when – _please _when – he does start laughing again – it won't sound like Fred. Percy doesn't know how he knows this, but it's one of the few things he can still be sure of.

There's nothing else he's sure of right now. He used to be sure of everything. In a sense, he does miss the certainty. But he knows now that he'd rather be lost in this misery of pain and uncertainty because it means that he is with his family again…

But somehow, he isn't. Because this is no longer the family he once refused to admit he missed (even though he did – boy did he. He never _wanted_ to send those jumpers back. It was just the _principle._)

He hates that word now. Principle. It was his _principles_ that kept him away from the Burrow for so long. It was his _principles _that made the twins _hate _him (even if his parents both insist now that no one ever hated him – they just hated what he was doing. But he knows they did. He doesn't blame them. He hates _himself _now.) It is his _principles _that mean he's not entitled to any sympathy now. The rest of his siblings are. They didn't abandon the family. They're _allowed_ to mourn their brother. He isn't. He doesn't have that right anymore, and no one can convince him that he does.

They've been trying, though. His parents. Bill. Even Ron has said a few words whenever he manages to take his eyes off Hermione for more than a minute at a time. (Percy wishes it were infatuation, but he knows it's because Hermione is the only piece of sanity Ron can cling to these days.) Charlie hasn't said anything, but Percy knows that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Charlie. Ginny – well, she is also remaining silent – but this doesn't surprise him either. If there were anyone who _would_ hold a grudge, it would be Ginny, and it's the only reaction Percy _can _understand. And then there's George…

Percy swallows hard and shakes his head as his eyes flicker to his brother. George is sitting very still in an armchair in the corner of the Gryffindor common room. And it's wrong. He shouldn't be in the corner by himself. He and Fred should be holding court in the center of the room, surrounded by their adoring fans. But the only people who surround George these days are well-meaning worriers. And as much as Percy's wished he could save him from that, now he wonders if he should get someone to come look after him. He's not the one to do it, though. He'd be the last person George would want. He closes his eyes. He can't look at George any longer.

This is why he jumps when he feels a hand brush his shoulder and hears a rough voice that obviously is out of practice.

"Perce… tell me again. About the joke?"

Percy looks at the desperation in his George's eyes and suddenly another image floats before him – an image of two identical faces before him, begging for another bedtime story – and his own eyes fill with tears. Because as much as he wants to be able to answer – and to be seeing two sets of blue eyes right now and not just one miserable pair – he's seeing the wall again. And he's seeing himself not saving Fred. And suddenly, he can't stop the sob that bursts out of him. He can't stop seeing the wall fall.


	5. George can't

George can't laugh.

Everyone wants him to. He's sure everyone wants him to. They look at him out of the corners of their eyes, and he's sure they're just waiting for a joke or a laugh – why else would they be watching him so carefully? Well, he's sorry. But he just can't do it. It's not time yet.

He doesn't want to hurt them, though. He can already see how much they're hurting. He gets it, too. It's sweet, almost, how other people are so sad about Fred. He isn't, though. Sad, that is. He probably should be. He knows everyone thinks he is. But he really isn't because what is there to be sad about? Fred – well, he's got to give him credit for the biggest joke he's ever played.

The reason he can't laugh? He just hasn't gotten to the punch line yet. But he's sure he will soon. It isn't like Fred to hold out for so long like this. Any time now, he's going to wake up and laugh and tell them all that he got them because he really did. Even George is having a hard time believing occasionally that this is all a joke. Maybe that's why he can't laugh.

Mum isn't laughing. George feels a pit in his stomach whenever he sees her. Because he knows she doesn't believe this is a joke. He knows she thinks it's real. Dad, too. The two of them walk around with drawn faces and watery eyes, and George wishes he could tell them what he seems to be the only one who knows – that soon enough, this will all be over, and things will be back to normal. But whenever he opens his mouth to tell them, something stops him. He's not quite sure what.

Bill thinks it's real, too. Even Charlie is quiet and sad. Percy… well, George doesn't quite know what to make of Percy. He was there. He, of all people, should know that this is all a big joke. He was even the one to make Fred laugh right before he decided to pull this huge trick on all of them. But even _he _doesn't seem to get it, and George just doesn't understand why. Because if Percy doesn't get it, then maybe that means this isn't…

No. He shakes his head. He's sitting in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, and he knows that the movement catches Katie's attention. Now she's watching him again, and once again, he knows she must be waiting for a laugh. And once again, he knows it's not time yet. He can't laugh until Fred comes walking in and lets the rest of them know that this is all one big joke and they go back to the joke shop and things are the way they're supposed to be.

But… she's approaching him now, and her eyes are serious. He tries to smile, but it falters when her eyes remain solemnly fixed on him, and his lips tremble.

"I'm fine," he tries to say casually, but instead of nodding like everyone else has done, she merely sits beside him. For a moment, he freezes, hoping that if he's still enough, she won't touch him, but then her shoulder nudges his, and suddenly his eyes are stinging. He blinks rapidly, and Katie hears his breathing change. She turns to him slowly, afraid of what she's about to see, but he's not looking at her. He's staring at his feet, and all he wants to do is laugh, but now –

He just can't. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts; sleeping hurts; waking up hurts; eating hurts; talking hurts. Everything just hurts, and so he doesn't – no he _can't _do it anymore. He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles to the entrance to the dormitory, hardly aware that Katie is following him. He's hardly aware of anything even as he tumbles into the four poster bed, and he's lying there, wide eyed and shaking when suddenly he feels Katie curving herself against him, and he hears a high, keening sound that he's surprised to realize is coming from him. Her grip tightens, and then he's crying, crying harder than he can ever remember doing in his life, and she's holding him tightly, not saying a word. He wants to laugh. More than anything, he wants to laugh. But he can't.


	6. Ron can't

A/N: Oh, this was impossible. I just love Ron a little too much to hurt him like this.

Ron can't tell anyone.

For the past two mornings, he has woken up before Harry, and he has lain in bed, wondering how he's going to make it through _this _day in one piece. He plans out every minute he possibly can before climbing out of bed, gritting his teeth, and trying to smile. As far as he can tell, no one suspects anything.

Well… that's not entirely true. The only person who might know his effort is Hermione because sometimes he squeezes her hand tightly when he thinks he might lose his breath. He doesn't know why that happens either. There's no warning or anything. They might all just be sitting together, eating, and suddenly, he starts choking for air, and he holds onto her like she's his life preserver. She hasn't said anything, though, so he hopes she thinks he's just overly excited to be holding her hand (which, at any other time, would actually be true.) Realistically, he knows she's too smart not to have figured out the truth, but it doesn't hurt to hope that she hasn't.

It happens again the day before the funeral. It's probably the fourth time, and it's when everybody is sitting around the Gryffindor common room, discussing funeral arrangements. This time, though, Hermione pulls him into one of the dormitories, muttering some excuse he doesn't even hear as they go. He's concentrating too much on breathing to hear her anyway or to object to being pulled away.

Once they're alone, though, she lets go of him and, massaging one hand with the other, says quietly, "I'll wait until you can talk, but we _are _going to talk. You – you can't keep doing this."

Her voice trembles, and suddenly, Ron realizes that as much as he'd been hoping she'd just ignore these little moments, they've actually been scaring her.

"I'm sorry," he manages to whisper, and he knows his ears are turning pink. "You don't have to be scared. I'm – I just lost my breath is all. I think it must be the dust or something. No one's cleaned this castle in ages. I'm fine."

But now she looks – angry? Ron blinks as Hermione takes a step toward him and says, "Don't _lie _to me, Ronald. Not now. You're _not _ok. _Why_ do you think you have to keep pretending you are?"

He stares at her. Why? Because if he doesn't he'll have to admit that the first thought he's had every morning is that this is another day without Fred … that he doesn't understand when he's supposed to stop counting how many days it's been … that he can't bring himself to think that there will never _be_ a day when he won't have to count anymore … because Fred is never _ever _coming back.

He doesn't want to admit these things – he _doesn't_ – but now Hermione is reaching for him and taking him in her arms, and he also doesn't understand why she's stopped fighting. She never gives up first. But then he feels his chest tightening, and he realizes that she has already seen what he's only just started to realize – that the tears he'd been trying to blink back are now streaming down his cheeks and are soaking into her shoulder, and she's holding him more tightly than he's ever held onto her hand at any time in the past few days.

"I'm sorry," he chokes again, but she shakes her head and simply hangs on as his trembling increases.

"You don't have to be sorry," she somehow manages to say even though her own voice is shaking. She swallows hard. "This – this wasn't supposed to happen. Not to Fred."

And it's the sound of his brother's name – the one word he's been trying so hard not to hear, not to say – that breaks Ron at last, and the sound he's somehow managed to muffle suddenly erupts from him in a sob. He can hardly believe this noise is coming from him, but Hermione doesn't flinch. She doesn't move away. And she doesn't loosen her hold on him either.

Ron doesn't know how long they stand there together, but he knows he can't go anywhere until he's back in control. He never thought Hermione would be here for this, but he'll admit now that he never had a choice. He does, however, have a choice about everyone else.

He can't understand how anything could hurt this much. But he knows he can't let anyone else know it either.


	7. Ginny can't

**A/N: Well – it's been some delay. I'm finally getting back to this one and my others… sorry for anyone who's been waiting, but I have time again at long last. I hope this chapter (and assorted others) will have been worth the wait.**

Ginny can't stop clutching at the small silver broomstick she keeps in her pocket. Whenever anyone asks her for something – and it seems like someone is always asking her for something these days – she unconsciously tightens her grip before she answers. It's as if this broom is the only thing bringing her strength these days.

Looking at anyone in her family threatens to drown her in weakness. She's let the waves consume her too many times already. The first time, she really wasn't able to help it. She'd only just found out about Fred, and Mum was a wreck, and really, she could hardly think at all let alone think of what she was doing.

The other time – well, she knows that Charlie needed to cry – as much as she hates to think that. And if it took her tears to release his, then maybe that one time, it was worth it. But really, that's it. It _has _to be it, she finds herself thinking almost desperately as her fingers run over the smooth handle of the broomstick. It's just – well, it's just _too _hard, otherwise.

Her eyes scan the room. Harry is sitting with Hermione and Ron, and none of them are speaking. She doesn't have to think about why Ron isn't. If there's anything she knows, it's that Ron is having a much harder time with this than he'll ever admit. As far as Hermione goes – well, her face is white, and she's holding Ron's hand, and Ginny finds herself wondering that her bones haven't been crushed to a fine powder yet because she's seen the way Ron grips her at times. When she looks at Harry, though, she feels a pang of guilt. She knows he'd prefer to be sitting with her. She knows he wants nothing more than to be able to put his arms around her and forget the world around them. She even let him do that once, but then she found herself pushing him away abruptly when she felt his breathing change. Suddenly her hand convulses on the broom. She'll never forget the look of mortification on his face even though she desperately wishes she could.

Her eyes drift over to Percy, and she forces herself to examine him for a moment though she would like nothing more than to pretend he isn't there. She can't help it. She can't forgive him yet. She knows Fred did. That's great. But she can't. Not yet.

She continues to scan the room, her eyes flicking quickly over her parents, over Charlie, over George, over Fleur, over Bill. Over Bill… when she looks at Bill, she feels as though she's been doused in ice cold water. But --- shouldn't it be George who does that to her? She looks at him again, expecting to feel the same chill, but she doesn't. Katie is sitting with him, Ginny realizes now, and he's leaned into her, and he, at least, seems almost relaxed for the first time. She sighs and lets her eyes return to Bill.

He is staring at the carpet, and he's blinking too quickly for Ginny to be at all comfortable with it. As she starts to process the muted conversation going on around her, though, she understands why.

It's the memorial service tomorrow. It's the funeral a few days after that. It's the thought of all of these ceremonies they still have to get through just to get through the rest of their lives. And it's too much for Bill, suddenly, and Ginny is the only one who isn't surprised when he bolts from the room, climbing through the portrait hole, his footsteps stumbling away. Fleur moves to stand, but Ginny pops out of her seat and motions for her sister-in-law to stay. Fleur, looking surprised (and Ginny can't really blame her), slowly sits back down, and Ginny silently turns and follows the path her oldest brother just took.

She doesn't have far to go. She hears Bill before she sees him, and her stomach twists. She knows he wants to be alone; she, of all people, _knows _that better than anyone else, but she'd said she would go, so there's no turning back now.

She finds him exactly where she knew she would. But she's never seen him like this before. He's huddled on the floor, just inside a classroom door, his knees drawn up his chest, and his head in his arms. Ginny's feet are like lead, but she makes her way over to him, and she crouches beside him. She knows that he knows she's there. He stiffened when he heard her footsteps after all, but she doesn't say anything for a moment. She doesn't trust herself to. Her fingers are clenched so tightly around the broom that she hardly realizes she's taken it out of her pocket until Bill lifts his head and looks at it rather than at his sister.

"Where did you get that?" he asks, his voice muted, and she finds herself looking at it, too, but she still can't seem to open her mouth. Finally, when she realizes that Bill is actually waiting for an answer, she clears her throat.

"Fr – Fred. He got it for me. When he and George opened the shop. It was from his first earnings. He told me he'd get me a real one just like it one day when I got recruited by one of those big…"

Her voice trails off because she couldn't say another word if she tried. It's just hit her – even if she's recruited by every Quidditch team in the world – Fred will never know. The only broom he'll ever get her is the one she is now clutching – the one that's suddenly being splashed by tears she didn't even realize were in her eyes.

"He wanted to," Bill whispers, and he pulls Ginny against him, holding her tightly.

_It doesn't matter_, she can't help but think, _if he wanted to. The point is that can't anymore. He's gone – and I feel like all I have in the world is this stupid silver broomstick. _

But she still can't let it go.


	8. They won't

_**A/N: So we're up to the set of "won't" chapters. The set of "can't"s dealt with the immediate aftermath of the death. The "won't"s will deal with the funeral, itself.**_

Molly won't look at the grave. It's not a question of can or can't anymore. It's just that she absolutely won't do it. If she does… if she actually _sees_ that gaping hole in the ground … then the one in her heart might never heal.

So she stands to the side, angling herself in just such a way so that Arthur is shielding her from the sight she will not see. She doesn't know how he is doing it, how he is watching their _son _being _buried_. But… maybe he isn't. He isn't looking at _her_, though, so she's not sure what he's doing. All she does know for sure is that of all of the things she'd once imagined for their future, this – this_ nightmare _was nowhere on her list. She hears the shuddering breaths of her children beside her and behind her and is suddenly and forcefully reminded of the Boggart in Grimmauld Place. But that wasn't _real_. That was never supposed to be _real._

But there is no denying that this is real. Arthur's breath is shaking, and it's his turn to speak. She won't do it, but one of them has to. That much she knows. Fred deserves that much. Fred actually deserves much more, but this is all that's left for them to give him. And she feels like she might suffocate on the lump in her throat, but it's like Arthur has this secret reserve of strength that he's drawing from because he's always been the one to pick up the pieces when she feels like everything is falling apart. He's doing it now. He's stepping away from her, too. Without even thinking of what she's doing, Molly turns away, and she hears a quick intake of breath. She knows what people must be thinking – that she doesn't support him, doesn't care. But then she turns, and she sees that they're not gasping because of her. It's Arthur. He might be picking up the pieces as best he can, but – but he won't look either, and so he's standing in front of everyone – standing in front of that – that _thing_, in fact – but he's looking only at her.

Molly can't turn away from him now. She won't. She looks at Arthur, her eyes burning into him as she tries with all her might not to let her gaze flicker, and he is speaking directly to her when he tells everyone how much they loved their son and how proud they are of him – how he knew what the risks were and how he would have taken them anyway. This last part was something they'd discussed, something to hopefully help Harry feel less guilty. (Both of them know, though, that there is really nothing for that now.)

Somehow, he makes it through the speech he should have never had to give. Somehow, he manages to find his way back to her though he's blinded by tears that he's trying desperately to blink away. But when Molly reaches out a hand to help him, Arthur grasps hers as though it is a life raft, and she is the only thing keeping him afloat. And as he gathers her into his arms and buries his face in his shoulder, she's sure she is. As she inhales his familiar, comforting smell and holds him even more tightly, she knows he is doing the same for her. She picks up his pieces, too.

They'll be all right if they only look at each other and at Bill, at Charlie, at Percy, at George, at Ron and at Ginny. There can even look at Fleur and Harry and Hermione. But Molly feels guilty. Part of her knows that there is a way to look at Fred. But she won't do it. That – that _hole _in the _ground _– cannot possibly be the only way to be close to her son again. She won't believe that. She won't believe that at all.


	9. Bill won't

_**A/N: Told you I'd start updating faster!**_

Bill won't let his hands shake. He has to carry the coffin – yes – has to – and he will _not_ let anyone know just how hard this is for him. He is the oldest. He should be the strongest.

He's afraid he isn't, though. He's afraid that Ginny is stronger than he is, and so are Charlie, and Ron, and even Percy. Percy's usually a crier, but he isn't crying. Meanwhile… that's all Bill wants to do. He can't remember another time in his life when _all _he wanted was to curl up somewhere and _cry_, but he also can't remember another time in his life when he's felt this lost, this miserable, this _scared_.

The only person he knows he is stronger than is George. But – but maybe that's not even true. Because George is surviving, isn't he? And that takes more strength and more courage than _anything _Bill is doing. So Bill has figured out the only things he _can_ do to stay strong. First and foremost, he has to stay away from Fleur. (She _will _make him cry if she so much as brushes against him. He can't let that happen.) He also has to focus on everything that needs to get done. He helps his parents make the arrangements. He helps his siblings show up when and where they're supposed to. And today, he helps carry his brother's coffin.

His brother's coffin… no. It's not safe for him to think that way. If he even for one second remembers what it is that's he levitating with his wand, he won't be able to hold it steady, and he'll let everybody down. His mother is counting on him. So his father, and so is everyone else. So is Fred. He couldn't save him. And – and if he couldn't save him, the least he can do is give him the honor of supporting him now. It's – well, it's all he _can _do.

He and his brothers and sister gather in the sitting room of the Burrow, and they are all holding their wands. He doesn't want to, but he finds himself looking around at all of them. Charlie stands with his back to the wall. He is staring at the floor and won't look at the rest of them, but Bill can see from the set of his jaw that he is trying his hardest to keep it together. He looks away. Fleur isn't the only one who can get to him. If Charlie gives in … well, Bill knows he couldn't help him without losing it, himself, and that can't happen.

He turns toward George, but just as quickly, he finds himself guiltily looking away. But none of them can look at George for more than a breath. Because while it hurts too much to see _him_ like this, it hurts just as much to see such a stark reminder of the reason why they're all so miserable. George can't help it that he is a walking reminder of all they're missing, but they can't help that it hurts to see him. Bill wants to be strong enough to do it, but he can't. But Ginny can.

Ginny is watching George when Bill's eyes fall on her, and she sees what Bill wouldn't. She steps toward George and grasps his free hand tightly. But Bill isn't watching anymore. He's turned his attention to Percy, Percy who is clearly forcing himself to stare at the coffin. His eyes are brimming, but he won't look away.

Ron is the only one who's sitting. Bill almost tells him to stand up, that it's just about time to go, but he sees from the look in Ron's eyes that he already knows. Ron is staring straight ahead, and Bill would think he wasn't seeing anything, but his face is white, and his hands are clenched in fists, and Bill knows that the problem isn't that he's not seeing anything – it's that he's _still_ seeing _everything_. Bill swallows hard. This – this might just be impossible.

But it's time to go. Bill clears his throat, and slowly, as if he's awakened them all from some sort of trance, his siblings look up. They look at him and, without a word passing between any of them, they automatically arrange themselves, Bill at the front, and he takes a deep breath. They all point their wands at the coffin, and it rises, wobbling, into the air.

"Steady," Bill murmurs, his voice hoarse. But then he looks down. His hand is shaking. He looks around. Everyone's is. Desperately, he wraps his other hand around his wand hand, and he manages to steady it. "Look," he urges, his voice almost desperate, and they all see what he's doing, and slowly, the rest of them do the same. Slowly, the coffin stabilizes.

"Let's go." Bill sighs wearily. He grips his wand hand tightly. He won't – he won't let Fred down. He won't let his hands shake.


	10. Charlie won't

_**A/N: And I'm back! The creative juices have slowly started flowing again. Other updates to come soon.**_

No matter what happens, Charlie thinks, as he watches her inexorable approach, he will _not _shout at Great Auntie Muriel.

Charlie knows that Bill can tell. He knows that Ginny probably can, too. But no one else expects this to be as hard for him as it is for everyone else, and Great Auntie Muriel is certainly at the top of that ridiculous list. So he's determined to do two things. He won't look at Bill – or at Ginny – and he won't shout at Great Auntie Muriel.

Some things make it hard, though. First of all, as much as Bill thinks he, himself, is hiding it, no one can miss how much he's struggling to keep it together. When he figured out how to hold his wand steady, it couldn't have been clearer to any of them that this would be the least of his problems (even though Charlie knew he was hoping that this would be the worst of them.)

But he can't think about Bill now. (Or George.) Doing that makes Charlie's chest feel tight, and that is not at all comfortable with Great Auntie Muriel on the very near horizon. So he doesn't look at either of them, and he stays in the corner, concentrating on breathing evenly.

This won't be hard. The hardest part is over. It has to be. They levitated the – the thing – and they had to lower it into the _ground_, for Merlin's sake, and then they had to stand there while that little old wizard spoke, and then Dad tried to speak and – and George… Charlie shakes his head. No. He can't let himself relive any of that now. Or ever. Preferably ever.

He looks around the Burrow to avoid looking at his Great Aunt. Ithasalways seemed crowded, but now, even with people seemingly coming out of the _walls_, for Godric's sake, it feels inexplicably empty. There's not one person here he wants to talk to. (He wishes she would take that hint, but no, she keeps coming.) He wants them all to leave. What's the point, anyhow, of all of these people standing around, covering them with even _more _sadness? Like they don't already have enough on their own? This isn't _helping_.

Charlie wants to go outside to get some air, but it's too late now because she's standing before him. He grits his teeth. He will listen to whatever she says and not shout at her. He _won't_.

"Hello, Charlie," she says, and her voice is as strident as it's ever been. He plasters a smile on his face which surely must more closely resemble a grimace as he bends forward to kiss her cheek.

"Hello, Auntie" he says, his voice sounding rusty even in his own ears.

She scrutinizes him closely. "You're not with your brothers or your sister," she notes.

Charlie shakes his head. No. He isn't. And he's not about to explain why. But he knows he can count on her to ask the questions that any tactful person most certainly would not.

"Why not?" she demands. "Don't you think they might need you now?"

Charlie clamps his lips together and shakes his head slightly. Her eyes widen incredulously.

"Well, you're wrong," she huffs. "Of course they need you. You're their brother. I'd think that with only six of you left, you'd want to stay together as much as possible."

Charlie's eyes widen and his mouth opens as the air goes roaring out of him. His stomach starts to hurt, and he swallows hard. No, he won't shout at Great Auntie Muriel. Because, for the first time in his life, she's left him speechless.


	11. Percy won't

Percy gazes around the Burrow and thinks that in the past two weeks, he's seen it all. He saw Hogwarts getting destroyed. He saw a wall – a _wall_, for Merlin's sake – fall on his brother. He saw his mother, his father and his brothers and sister just losing it in the Great Hall. He saw everything that he'd dreaded might happen, everything that had finally convinced him that he couldn't stay away from his family any longer. But it all happened anyway, and Percy saw all of it.

Now, though, he has a choice of what to see. And Percy absolutely won't meet George's eyes. Somehow, he doesn't think this is going to be a problem. If there's anyone George needs right now, it isn't him. He'd be amazed if George even registered that he is here again, but he doesn't blame him, obviously. And part of him can't help but wonder if maybe George would be better off if he just left.

But he looks around now. If he does that, he knows it'd be more for himself than for George, so he won't. For one thing, it'd destroy his Mum, and Percy is finished doing that. He did it once, and he thinks for a moment now about how she hasn't really stopped crying in days, and he swallows hard. He can never do that to her again. She keeps telling him anyhow that having him back is one of the few things making this whole nightmare a little easier. Even though he doesn't believe her – because, honestly, _nothing _could make any of this easier – he knows that she means it.

And then there are Bill and Charlie. For some reason Percy can't determine, they were fine with him from the moment he returned, but he knows part of it's because they weren't in the Burrow these past few years to see the toll his absence took on their parents. He doesn't care what the reason is, though. It's not just _nice_ to have his big brothers back. He hadn't seen them in years, no, but there is no denying that he _needs_ them now. When he can't sleep at night, Bill always seems to know, and he doesn't make him feel stupid about it. Charlie doesn't either. He shows up with sandwiches, and the three of them talk until he's tired enough to try to sleep again. It reminds him of a simpler time, and that's something he is trying to cling to right now.

But right now… well, right now Bill and Charlie look nothing like they usually do when the three of them talk in the night. Bill is clearly struggling, and Charlie – well, Charlie is being confronted by Great Auntie Muriel, and Percy guiltily – but devoutly – gives thanks that it isn't him. She's the last thing he needs right now, and he's glad she's chosen Charlie. He can only imagine what she'd have to say to him, anyway.

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to imagine that. He looks over at Ron and Ginny, but he quickly realizes he doesn't want to see them either. Some things – some things are still too hard. And knowing that those two don't forgive him — might _never _forgive him — makes him feel panicky. Everyone else – his mum, his dad, Bill, Charlie – they all tell him he's being ridiculous, that of course Ron and Ginny have _already _forgiven him, but neither of them has said it. And then he feels guilty for expecting them to say anything of the sort at a time like this when they're obviously still so ripped apart about Fred.

Fred… Fred did forgive him, Percy knows. It's one of the few things he _does _know, and it's maybe the _only _thing that's keeping him at all sane. He doesn't want to remember that moment – that moment when the wall – but it was the last time he saw Fred – and he'd made that joke, and – and he can't help it. Every night, before he goes to sleep, he tries to relive that moment. If George knew…

And Percy's eyes start to stray in his direction, but he shakes himself and turns resolutely away. No. It's one thing to look at Ron and Ginny and think that they don't forgive him because even _he_ knows on some level that they probably will someday, but to look at George – to look at the one person whose forgiveness he so desperately needs (but doesn't deserve) –well, he can't. He's been trying to stay strong for everyone else, and if anything could ruin that strength, it'd be seeing George's eyes – Fred's eyes – and – and seeing them looking like _this_.

It's not fair of him to want George to laugh or even smile right now, but he does. He _does_. He wants everything to be the way it used to be, but as his eyes involuntarily stray in George's direction again and he sees him slumped miserably in the arm chair, Ginny's arm around his shoulders, he feels like he's choking, and he has to turn away again. Nothing will _ever _be the way it used to be, and the only thing that could possibly make this any harder would be seeing George's face. He wonders now how he ever got into Gryffindor because it's too hard and too scary, and he won't do it. He won't meet George's eyes.

_**A/N: I don't know if I've ever felt this bad for Percy before… **_


	12. George won't

_**A/N: It's so hard to write such a broken George. I just wanted to give him a big hug…**_

This isn't Fred's funeral. It can't be. Maybe, on a rational, logical level, he knows that it is. Maybe even on a tiny, emotional level, he knows it, too. But that's the extent of it. Because if he starts to really _know_ it – if he starts to really believe that _this_ is why everybody is here, that _this _is why everybody is crying – he won't be able to read the eulogy. And he has to do this today, and he has to make it through in one piece. George will _not _let his voice crack.

But if that's going to happen, he can't look at anyone. He knows a lot of people are looking at _him_ – the top of his head tingles from the force of their stares – but he also knows it's not safe to look up. It's not the pity, though. The pity he can ignore. It's the grief that pierces him. It's the tears that everyone else is shedding. Because they're for Fred, and that _isn't_ what Fred would have wanted. He knows that because he wouldn't have wanted it either. He just wants…

No. He can't let himself think like that either. That's dangerous, too. That could lead him down that slippery slope to the place where he won't be able to talk at all, let alone give this eulogy. And he has to do this the way Fred _would_ have wanted.

But the small part of his mind that he can't control is constantly wondering… how is he supposed to know _what _Fred would want anymore? He's not here to tell him, after all. _George_ is the one who has to sit in this room, all by himself (it doesn't _matter _if all of his siblings sit around him; he is still all by himself; he always will be). _George_ is the one who has to talk to Great Auntie Muriel and try not to scream. _George_ is the one who has to watch Bill's hand shaking while he tries to act like he's stronger than everybody else when they all _know _he isn't.

_George _is the one who has to do all of it. Not Fred and George. Just George. Because _George_ is the one who's been left all alone.

No one else is as lonely as he is. He knows this like he's never known anything before, and it is a physical ache. He sits and stares at the floor. Ginny is sitting on the arm of his chair, but he can't talk to her. Today, he can't talk to anyone. The only words he's planning on saying are on a piece of paper that is tucked into his pocket, and if he can just read those off the page without any kind of breakdown, he can consider the day a success. He can't help but think that _this_ never used to be the barometer for success.

Ginny just can't touch him. If she touches him at all … well, he won't even be able to breathe properly, let alone read this eulogy. Sure, sometimes it helps when she squeezes his shoulder or takes his hand but not – not today. He shudders slightly, and then he stiffens because she's turning in his direction, and – and she can't _do _that.

All it takes is one look, and George knows she sees it all. He hopes _desperately _that she'll also understand that he needs her to keep her distance. She's usually pretty good about that, better than most of the others. But she reaches over then and takes his hand, and now his eyes are burning, and he's swallowing hard against the ever-present lump in his throat, and he is having a hard time breathing normally. He wants to be angry with her for doing this to him at a time when she _has _to know he just cannot handle it – but then he looks up. Her eyes shimmer as she looks straight back at him, and he knows that he isn't the only reason why they're holding hands.

They don't say a word as they get out of the chair where they'd both been sitting and make their way out of this room. Neither of them cares much about where they end up as long as it's not here with everybody else. They only make it the few feet to Ginny's bedroom. Once they're inside with the door firmly shut behind them, Ginny immediately sinks down onto her bed, her face covered by her long hair, her shoulders trembling. George looks at her, his face twisting. He doesn't – he won't – he can't_ do_ this. But right now, it doesn't seem like he's being given much of a choice.

"Gin," he says, and his voice breaks. It's only one word, and he can't even say that. He starts to shake. He's not even sure she heard him. He clears his throat and tries again.

"Ginny, please," he begs, wincing as his voice comes out high and pleading, and this time, she does look at him. Her eyes are red, and, very much against his will, George's own eyes fill. He blinks and tries to shake his head quickly as Ginny reaches for him, but she's ignoring him _again_, and this time, there's no one else there, and George finds himself falling into his little sister as the sobs bunch in his chest and he can't stop the broken wounded noises from coming out of his mouth.

A long time passes before he finally sits up and drags the back of his sleeve across his face. Ginny looks at him, and her voice is surprisingly calm when she says, "now, I think you'll be able to do it."

George looks at her before nodding slowly. Maybe she did know what he needed better than he did. Maybe now, he _can_ give the eulogy. Maybe this time, his voice won't crack.


	13. Ron won't

_**A/N: Sometimes, circumstances like these lead to the most unlikely pairs. Thanks for the brainstorming, Fi.**_

_1, 2, 3, release._

_1, 2, 3, release. _

Ron tries to sigh inaudibly but can't stop himself from thinking, _why the bloody hell does everyone want to hug me?_ He is getting so good at tuning most of them out as they move down the seemingly endless line. He envies Bill for a moment, Bill who will get this over with before he does because he's right after their parents in this line (age order as usual), and then he'll be able to go sit down with Fleur and not talk to anyone for at least a little while.

But not him. No, he will be here for an eternity, it seems, hugging people quickly. He _won't _hug _anyone _for more than three beats a time; it's too dangerous to let anyone hold on any longer. He also tries to grimace in some approximation of a smile as they offer their condolences.

No one really understands. How could they? No one Ron has seen so far has lost anyone remotely close to a brother. He can't help but keep up a running inner monologue as each person approaches, some with trepidation, some with compassion and some with what can only be termed pity.

_Oh, look, here's Neville… hug… 1, 2, 3, and release. He looks sad… maybe he does get it a little because of his parents and all… but parents aren't a brother…_

_Luna's here? Well, yeah, I guess she would be here. She looks sad, too. She did lose her mum… that had to be tough. And she'd never pity, so … no. 1, 2, 3, and release. That could've gotten bad…_

_Oh, I can't look at Lee. 1, 2, 3, release. Quick, quick, go to Ginny. You're – you're not supposed to look like this… _

_Dean looks nervous… I bet he's never been to a funeral before. Well, neither have I. (Dumbledore's ... well, that memorial service didn't count. It wasn't -- it wasn't _this._) What does _Dean_ have to be nervous about? 1, 2, 3, release. _

_Seamus … wow. He actually looks really upset. He feels all quivery, too. 1, 2, 3, release. Quickly. _

_Oliver Wood… I haven't seen him in ages. He doesn't look the same at all. Actually, he never looked like this. 1, 2, 3, release. _

_Angelina's face is too white. Her lips are pursed together, too. This one is going to have to be fast. She could cry any minute. 1, 2, quick pat on the back. Ok, go now. You can cry on Ginny. You can't cry on me._

_Wait, McGonagall is here? And – and Hagrid? Whoah… Flitwick and Sprout, too? McGonagall looks way too sad… and—and she's about to hug me. Ok, this'll have to be fast too. I can't believe I'm hugging McGonagall. 1, 2, 3, release._

_Oh no… Hagrid is already crying. Smile for him. There you go. And there he goes, onto Ginny. Good. I'm glad he didn't even try for the hug. He could easily break a rib or something else equally important._

_Ah, there's even a chance to breathe for a minute. Doesn't look like too many people are left. Only… _

Ron gasps. Because heading for him right now, after offering condolences to George, is Andromeda Tonks, and Ron is hit squarely in the chest with her resemblance to Bellatrix. But she looks at him now, and just as quickly, he doesn't see Bellatrix. He sees Sirius, and he sees Tonks, and now, he sees her pain. He swallows hard as she looks at him.

"I'm very sorry about your brother, Ron," she says, her voice soft.

He nods, already eager for her to move on. There's something about her voice and her scent that is making him want her out of his sight immediately. But she's reaching for the customary hug now, and he tries to steel himself.

_I can do this. I've hugged a thousand people already today. It's just a quick 1, 2, 3 and then…_

But for the first time, Ron doesn't let go. For reasons he can't even explain to himself, his grip tightens. Andromeda hugs him harder in return. She doesn't think she's even hugged him once in the week that they've somewhat gotten to know each other, but suddenly, she's remembering what it was like for Tonks when Ted's mother died. She didn't speak to anyone at that funeral until her grandmother's friend had shown up, and then she'd sobbed all over her until Andromeda had had to come and help her away. Somehow, for some reason she can't explain, she knows that this is what is starting to happen to Ron.

Ron doesn't know, though. He still doesn't understand why he's clinging so tightly to this woman he's only known for a week or why she's even letting him. He wants to let go – it's embarrassing, after all, isn't it? He should be stronger than this, and he hardly knows Andromeda. But his eyes are burning now, and he closes them tightly, instinctively burying his face in her shoulder. It's like – it's almost like hugging his mum, but this woman isn't crying, and she's letting him soak her shoulder without asking any questions.

He knows that she can feel his shaking because her arms tighten around him. But he somehow manages to muffle any and all sounds in her shoulder, and after an eternity must have gone by, he clamps down enough to pull away. He knows his face must be scarlet, but Andromeda merely nods at him, her own eyes sharp with anguish. She whispers, "It's all right. And it'll happen again, too. And when it does – it'll be all right then, too."

That's all she says to him before she moves on to hug Ginny, but somehow, it gives him the strength to quickly rub his sleeve over his eyes even as he turns and tries to smile at Katie Bell.

_1, 2, 3, release_.

The line continues.


	14. Ginny won't

_**A/N: Wow… so I'm really, really sorry that it's taken me since AUGUST to finally update this. I've known for months that I owed Ginny this chapter at the very least, and it's finally here. I don't know if this is the last one, but I can promise, for anyone who was wondering, that I'm definitely back to writing again. Hope it was worth the absolutely obscene wait.**_

Ginny knows what they expect. She knows that they (well, Great Auntie Muriel, at least) think her brothers are the strong ones. They think that she's going to be the Weasley who's always falling apart over all this (well, her and her mother.) They think that because she's the only girl that she's going to be a mess. Well, she won't. She won't give them the satisfaction.

It's not about Fred. If anyone deserves her tears, of course he does. But she knows – knew – _knows_ him better than any of these people who are looking at her pityingly right now. She _knows_ Fred wouldn't care how she acts today.

But sometimes she finds it hard to breathe. And she doesn't want to think about why that happens whenever she looks at George because that's not fair to _George _who's having the hardest time of all of them. And of course he is. _He's _the one they need to be worried about. Not her. _He's_ the one who none of them can look at without having to swallow that sharp pain in the back of their throats. _He's_ the one who she suddenly realizes is sitting in that armchair studiously not looking at anyone.

She doesn't know why her feet carry her to his chair, why her hand seems to move of its own accord to rest on his shoulder. She _knows _he wants to be alone (or as alone as he can be in the midst of this morose crowd.) She _knows_ how that feels. But, somehow, she also knows what he needs. And after their brief escape from the room – those few minutes of tears that neither of them would ever allow anyone else to see – she also knows that maybe he'll make it through the eulogy in one piece.

It matters to him, and so it matters to her. But she knows that it's really just they and their other siblings who understand at all why this is so important. She's sure that everyone in this crowd that has gathered here today would understand even more if he _couldn't_ do it. In fact, everyone here who seems to think they know George – know _all _of them oh-so –well – would probably even think it was best for George not to have to say anything at all. But they don't understand. They _don't_. Ginny feels the anger burning in her – unreasonable anger that isn't directed at anyone in particular – and she lets herself give into it temporarily. It's just easier to be angry right now.

But today isn't about easy, obviously. Because suddenly, it's time for all of the rituals to start all over again, and she is sitting beside Ron. She tries not to notice how shallow Ron's breathing is or the fact that Harry isn't flanking her other side. She tries not to think about that at all. She _tries _to hold onto her anger. She succeeds, too.

Until George steps forward to speak. But she does all right for a while. He's managing to say everything he wants to, and he's even managing to do it with a minimum of quavering. She thinks they're both going to make it through. She really does. But then she hears it – the violent sniffle that erupts from Ron – and her eyes fill involuntarily. She clamps her lips together. She doesn't look at Ron. She doesn't need to. She knows he must be furious with himself for even allowing that much to escape. She lets out a careful breath. She'll stay strong for both of them. She'll prove that the only girl can be the _only _one who won't give in. She _won't_ give _them _the satisfaction.


End file.
